


Strangers of the London Underground

by SwishyJellyfishy



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Fluff, I never thought I would ever use that tag, London Underground, M/M, Pining, Technically because Greg is in university, Teen and up for language, but here we are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:54:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29466102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwishyJellyfishy/pseuds/SwishyJellyfishy
Summary: Routine sucks.Waking up early sucks.Public transportation also sucks.But sometimes it takes one person to brighten your day.Even if it's just the handsome stranger you see on your commute.Title on my Google Docs: Commuting sucks but I love my boys
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 42
Kudos: 89





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a work term I had.  
> I would often get on the subway every day and see the same people.  
> There was one guy there who I would notice standing at the same spot on the platform.  
> I never said anything to him but I really wanted to tell him I thought his hair was cool.  
> Anyway, I’m from Canada and I’ve never set foot in London, UK (we have a London here in Ontario) so I’m sorry if I don’t use the right terminology or, if you’re an actual London dweller, that there are no stairs or whatever it may be.  
> I'm using my own experience from my local subway system.  
> Please bear with me.  
> <3 <3

Greg used to love the really early mornings. 

The stupid early mornings, the before-the-birds-were-awake type of mornings. 

When the world was still sleeping soundly. As if that span of time was a secret only he had the privilege to know about.

The day felt like it had so much promise, like anything could occur, and he relished in being a part of that. 

Now he hated them. 

Dreaded them. 

Getting out of bed was like dragging himself through the mud. 

Willing, _begging_ , each foot to move closer to the front door, the pavement, down the stairs to the station. 

The lustre of it all had been lost at some point. What exactly sparked it, he couldn’t tell. 

There were a few possible reasons, though. 

The irritations of too many people milling about with the same idea, the morning rush dampening the quiet stillness of the dawn, having to plop himself down on an uncomfortable bench on the tube day in and day out.

The wonders of life being sucked away by the ennui of routine. 

Maybe it was London. 

Maybe it was getting older. 

Maybe it was just Greg. 

But nevertheless, the world kept turning, on and on and on.

Consistent. Boring. Predictable.

And he just had to live with it. 

  
\--------

Sipping his coffee from his thermal flask, he leaned against one of the walls on the platform as he waited for the tube to come rushing by.

Since he was just standing there, having forgotten his headphones for the umpteenth time, he pondered how he planned on finishing his history essay. It was due that night and he still had a whole page left. 

If he changed the fonts slightly, maybe that would fill in the required pages a bit better so he would have less to write. Perhaps if he fiddled with the margins? 

But his professor would probably notice that compared to everyone else’s. 

Greg sighed. 

He wondered when he stopped caring about his degree.

Then again, he wasn’t exactly passionate about it in the first place.

Mathematics was definitely not his strength, he wasn’t very interested in the sciences, and although psychology was always intriguing, he didn’t feel the urge or motivation to pursue it. He enjoyed talking to people and helping them fix their problems, but he really didn’t fancy himself verbose or intelligent enough to be a psychiatrist or something of that sort. 

Greg settled on history and English as he loved learning about wars and reading novels. And although he wasn’t brilliant at the analysis stuff, he was great at remembering facts, smaller details, and how to follow up on them.

So, despite it all, he was doing quite well which is why he decided to stick around and conclude his studies. 

He was also secretly hoping that inspiration would strike him at some point as he trudged through university, the light of wisdom shining him into the right career direction, ridding him of all his confusion. 

Alas, it hadn’t yet.

He still didn’t know what he wanted to do when he received his diploma.

Sighing, he took another sip. 

He heard the shuffle of the commuters from the perpendicular line downstairs and groaned a bit at how the tube he was waiting for was delayed again. Typical London. 

His favourite spot was the short wall that encompassed the staircase, that came up to just underneath his shoulder blades. As the tube doors would open within his vicinity, he could quickly shuffle in without having to fight and draw blood for it. But it also provided support on those groggy mornings when caffeine was the only thing keeping Greg from falling over.

He decided that maybe he should really put a cap on his addictions because his promised a-cigarette-or-two-at-most-a-day was starting to become three, four, five, instead. And he probably drank more coffee and alcohol than actual water.

A model student, if he did say so himself. 

Glancing around and quickly scanning this new crowd of people (a habit of his he couldn’t kill for some reason), his eyes settled on someone in particular.

Greg was a consistent commuter as of these past few weeks since he started the morning shift at the restaurant, so he often saw the same people. 

There was the bald man who seemed to not know that belts existed.

The blonde lady who always wore her glasses at the tip of her nose. 

The punk bloke that changed his hair colours all the time, this month being a shocking neon pink.

And the myriad of other students much like himself trying to trek through their degrees and their lives.

Yeah, he was quite familiar with the morning crowd.

But this one was different. He was new. 

A tall, probably more so than Greg, redhead he had never seen before came into view and stood almost touching the caution line on the platform.

Greg could only make out his profile but his nose and eyelashes were long. He couldn’t quite pinpoint his eye colour but they seemed almost blue in the dull lighting of the station and his skin was pale and almost cream-like in complexion. 

Given his suit, the black umbrella in hand, and a briefcase, Greg would have assumed the gentleman was in his thirties. But his face looked young, almost Greg’s age if not younger.

It was sort of an odd juxtaposition but he wasn’t about to judge someone else’s dress choices. He wasn’t really much of a stylist himself and wore jeans and sweats on a consistent rotation along with any band tee he had on hand. 

Why comb your hair if it kept moving around anyway? So, he didn’t. 

Still, the redhead looked so put together and so posh, compared to the drudge of the London tube population at 5:30 AM in the morning, he shone like a diamond in the rough. A flower amongst the weeds.

His focus snapped when he heard the announcement that their ride was about to arrive and Greg screwed the lid on his coffee flask and placed it in his backpack. 

Ready to brace the onslaught, he stood forward, a few metres away from the lovely stranger who would be entering from a different door. 

As usual, the crowds were intense and Greg momentarily lost sight of him. He was grateful the man was tall because he towered a bit over the other bustling heads. Greg recognized that mop of red.

He didn’t know why he was so fixated. He was gorgeous, sure, from what he could see. But that didn’t mean Greg was going to do something about it. It would probably seem creepy and the stranger didn’t look like the flitty, flirty type, but serious and studious. He wouldn't give Greg the time of day. 

Also, who would try to chat up anyone so early in the morning? 

Shrugging to himself, he kept his eyes forward, looking through the window of the sliding doors, willing himself not to bother checking which platform that redhead got off at. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not a long fanfiction, but I wanted to have the joy of posting chapters.  
> So, come along for the ride (haha) with me.  
> I'll try to post one every day until completion.  
> I'm currently procrastinating on assignments so you guys can keep me company.  
> <3 <3


	2. Chapter 2

And thus the cycle began.

A couple of weeks passed by and Greg became aware of the morning schedule of a complete stranger.

Which, for one, was ridiculous because he only saw him for a span of five to ten minutes, depending on the train ride and delays. But his brain apparently was quite good at paying attention and being perceptive, he thought.

Or, on the other side of the spectrum, he just had all the tools to be an excellent stalker.

Anyhow. 

The stranger was on the tube every work day but Fridays, in particular, were a toss up. Either he sometimes came into the office (he had to be working somewhere with cubicles) later on those days or perhaps he worked a four day week? 

He stayed on the train past Greg’s stop, so he wasn’t sure where exactly he got off. 

Even more too-stalker-like-for-comfort, Greg started to pay attention to his wardrobe, too.

The stranger wore nothing but suits so he supposed that wasn’t too difficult to discern but he hardly saw the same combination twice.

Sometimes it was a simple linen, or a pinstripe, sometimes it was Glen Check, one scandalous day, it was plaid. 

Overall, the stranger stuck generally to traditional suit and tie colours, navy, gray, charcoal. At least, in Greg's experience of what made up 'traditional' colours. 

It wasn't as if he made it a habit to wear suits. Or own more than one of them at a time. 

As for shirts, they ranged from mostly whites to blues to even a soft pastel yellow once. Greg supposed that was the department he got adventurous in.

His shoes would switch from brown to shiny black brogues depending on what he was wearing that day.

His coats looked more expensive than Greg’s entire wardrobe but were mostly just gray and black, as well. A bright dresser, he was. 

He always had an umbrella on him even if the forecast said it was going to be sunny and he also always held a briefcase.

One peculiar Wednesday (the plaid day), he swore the stranger was wearing a bowtie. But he couldn’t tell by the angle he was looking at him from and his fancy coat that covered most of his suit anyway, cruelly obstructing Greg’s lovely view.

Greg was very aware how much he was paying attention but the stranger never glanced in his direction.

He was either always looking ahead, face stern, or his nose was in a book. His choices seemed to range from old English fiction (of course he would read Dickens) to non-fiction about law and politics. Greg once also saw what appeared to be a quantum physics textbook judging by the book cover. He wasn't entirely sure it was in English. 

Either the stranger dropped books like no one’s business or he was a stupid fast reader as Greg saw a new one every couple of days. Far quicker than should be humanly possible given the thickness of them. 

But unfortunately, the stranger apparently didn't find anything remotely emotional or comedic because he never looked anything but neutral. Even though he was halfway through  _ Mrs. Dalloway _ . 

Greg started to wonder what he looked like when he was happy. Did his eyes shine? Was his smile more timid? Or did he have one of those ear to ear grins? 

It was silly, stupid even, to get so caught up with this person who didn’t even know Greg existed but it almost became a little game to play in the morning. 

What suit combination would he be wearing that day? Was there a pattern? Would he ever not have that damned umbrella with him? Did he not drink coffee on the tube like a normal person? When did he get off work? What was his name?

All these questions had no clear answers. 

Except maybe the suit part. No pattern. Probably whimsy.

Or maybe the man had his own styling team. That would make sense. 

_ On the basis of what, Greg? You don’t even know the man.  _

\--------

It had been about two months since this stranger came into his life and he was rather a highlight to Greg’s boring routine.

Something to sort of look forward to on those cold mornings where he knew he had to get up but his blanket beckoned him back like a Siren. It was dampened a bit by his existentialism, unfortunately, as Greg was beginning to process the fact that he would be graduating soon.

Excitement was building as the days, weeks, and months crept by but also the sense of absolute dread. 

He had no idea what he was going to do. Absolutely zero.

Although he liked English and history, he wasn’t going to be a professor. That required those analysis skills he sorely lacked. And he wasn’t even sure what other jobs one could get with those degrees. A museum curator? An archaeologist? Both jobs required patience and gentle hands. He was fairly certain he would break some priceless artefact if he even entered one’s vicinity. His body was built for rugby and football, not for dainty and precious things. 

Perhaps that was something university advisors should have made note of when telling all the students in sixth form that if they decided to go to university, that they should probably think ahead about how their degree was supposed to get them a job.

He also had to admit that that was something he should have thought of himself.

But he was seventeen when he had to make those final decisions. Greg didn’t feel like it was fair to make a not-even-legal-adult yet pick a career path and he had little support on the matter. 

Neither of his parents had gone to university so they were no help for the whole during and aftermath business and their advice was mostly to do what he thought would make him happy.

He appreciated the sentiment but it was sorely useless for him in terms of attempting to find some guidance. 

His mates were a combination of ‘I’ll see where life takes me’ to ‘I know exactly what I’m doing down to the letter, date, and time’ and neither of those approaches were in any way constructive.

Greg needed to have a plan. And although he was more the former than the latter in terms of life temperament, that didn’t mean he had loads of money laying around to help him try out some dreams here and there. 

He remembered thinking he wanted to join a band when he was fifteen, as all young rock and punk fans did at some point in their lives.

It seemed like a pretty good idea at the time and he was quite skilled with the guitar.

But reality threw its cold water into his face and he gave up on that as soon as the school counselors said he had to pick a university to attend lest he be broke, living on his parents’ couch, and sad for the rest of his life. Scare tactics were quite effective for young adults. 

It all seemed so ridiculous. 

He almost wished someone could plop down from the sky, look at him with a keen eye, and just _know_ where he should be. To order him, to tell him, show him the path, and take the decision out of his hands.

But there was no such luck as life was a cruel fucker and Greg was being thrown around like a game.

He did do well on that essay from a few weeks ago, though.

So, perhaps he wasn’t an idiot. At least not entirely.

He took another sip of his coffee as he passively leafed through one of those ‘helping you with your future’ brochures. 

_ I think I like you in pinstripe best.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of Greg's thoughts are reflections of my own nervousness in university.  
> And although I was able to make enough decisions that led me down a path, I always think about whether or not this was the best idea.  
> I wonder if any of you guys share these trepidations.  
> Thank you for sticking around.  
> <3 <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On to the next stop~!

God, it was just one of _those_ mornings.

The ones where almost everything that could have gone wrong did go wrong.

And to quite the fantastic degree. 

Greg hadn’t slept well as he was stressing about first term finals looming around the corner, anxiety making him toss and turn all night.

He burnt his left hand while trying to pour hot water into his flask because he was so tired.

He almost missed his connecting ride because he had to clean up the mess he had made lest his parents chew him out when he got home. 

And to top it all off on this spectacularly shitty morning, Mr. Stranger wasn’t there.

Greg had no idea when his presence started to mean something to him but it bloody well did and he was going to pout about it all he wanted.

Rationality be damned. 

It wasn’t a Friday so this was quite the derailing of his schedule, which Greg assumed the stranger was always doing the utmost to keep.

He imagined that Mr. Stranger was meticulous and graceful judging but how long and dainty his fingers looked gripping that umbrella and how precise he was when doing something as simple as turning a page in a book. 

He definitely didn’t seem the type who would have made the disastrous mistake Greg did earlier, leaving clutter and mess in his wake.

The man probably used a French press or something for his own daily caffeine (maybe he was a strictly tea person?) or had one of those expensive coffee machines. Like the one he saw being sponsored by George Clooney. 

No hot water from a beaten up kettle and instant grounds from Tesco for him. 

God, his own hand still felt raw and scathed. But luckily, it seemed like a superficial burn, nothing he would need to go to the doctor about.

Perhaps he would stop by the chemist to get a cream or something to ease the sensitivity of it. 

Sipping his coffee he still stubbornly made (he wasn’t about to board the tube without it, so help him), he wondered if the stranger would ever wear plaid again. 

It suited (haha) him in an odd way and for some reason, Greg was sure that was as whimsical as he would get. 

\--------

For the next couple of days, Mr. Stranger still didn’t appear.

Greg was getting a bit anxious over it when the third day rolled by and even more so when the weekend came and Monday was still a no go.

Surely, it was probably something mundane. Maybe a cold? A vacation? Seemed a bit sporadic for the latter as December was coming by but maybe those cubicle folks ran on a different schedule. 

An illness made more sense, though. Greg himself often got sick around this time, too.

Despite his attempts to not think about it too much, his brain decided that it wasn't going to listen as he went over every possibility under the sun that had to do with crashing stock markets and family emergencies. 

But then he pondered that perhaps the stranger switched jobs. Maybe he even changed his morning routine or bought a car?

Greg always wondered why someone so posh and probably rich would even take public transportation. Seemed beneath him in some understandably pretentious way. 

Sure, driving in London in the mornings was hell on Earth, but he could probably get chauffeured in a comfortable car instead of being battered around by the peasant folk of the Underground. Like Greg himself.

Regardless of his theories (and there were many), the point was was that he wouldn’t know the answer. In any shape or form. He just had to be patient, he supposed. 

Even with his attempts to ignore this particular scenario, Greg also knew he could possibly never see the stranger again.

The thought unsettled him far more than it should have.

It made him actually sad. Forlorn, maybe. Was that the best word? 

Why? Greg had no idea. He did enjoy the fun game he set up for himself at the stranger’s expense. It was doubly nice to just see a pretty face in the morning. Was it just the routine? Was that the part he enjoyed? Surely, there weren’t many other explanations.

He continued to look around for the handsome redhead with the nice suits. 

He couldn’t find him.

\--------

The next day, Mr. Stranger was there again.

Greg felt a rush of relief as soon as he saw that red hair climb up the stairs from below.

It was almost akin to seeing an old friend after not hearing from them for a while or not knowing how they were doing. That was probably a misleading metaphor as the stranger was nothing more than a stranger to Greg. But it felt like it all the same. 

He was starting to question his sanity a bit, if he were honest, considering how much head space Greg was giving to him. 

The stranger looked impeccable as always, wearing a black coat that covered the navy linen suit with a crisp white shirt, black tie, and, to match it all, he wore his black brogues. Stylish, clean, and totally put together. 

His trusty umbrella (maybe it was a weapon in disguise) clutched in his left hand, his briefcase in his right.

The only difference really was that the stranger looked a little more weary. His eyes, though impassive, seemed tired and almost bloodshot. His posture wasn’t as straight as a stick and he shifted a bit more than usual. Changing which foot he placed his weight on and almost grimacing slightly when he made certain movements. 

Perhaps he had been sick. Something really bad that took him out of commission for a week or so. 

Greg tried to impart some psychic comforts, telling him to make sure he drank lots of fluids and that he wouldn’t overwork since it was his first day back. 

If the stranger received any of his musings and healing words, he couldn’t tell.

The tube pulled up, officially starting his Wednesday but Greg was in far better spirits than he had been in days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Until tomorrow. <3 <3


	4. Chapter 4

Exam season was always fucking terrible. 

Greg was confident he passed all his classes with quite decent grades. He did work hard despite his misgivings about his degree. 

But the dread of the future coupled with his pounding fear of failure combined with little sleep and too much caffeine made him an absolute tosser to anyone who entered his general vicinity. 

He snapped at his coworker today about something absolutely mundane. Just because she got the numbers at the till wrong didn't mean he had any reason to bark at her. 

He felt so bad about it, he waited until after her shift was done to apologize and buy her a chocolate chip muffin at the nearby bakery. 

She luckily forgave him and said something about the fact that he had been looking rather out of sorts lately. He was grateful for her understanding but it didn’t excuse his behavior. 

Greg really needed to get his mood in order or he was going to alienate all the people he worked with in no time. 

Then again, he shouldn’t have taken all those shifts from a few of them, either. 

Helping others was going to be the death of him if he wasn’t careful but he tended to thrive on feeling like he was always _doing_.

Something about the chemical reward system of hard earned success was slightly addictive. Coupled with the genuine pride in being able to ease someone else's burdens was also nice, as well. Fuel to the fire, really. 

He wondered if the stranger was a workaholic like him. He seemed the type, actually, always professional and serious. Never seeming to be off the clock. Greg estimated based on his appearance that he was around his own age but already in full time work. 

He was almost jealous about the fact that someone who not long ago sat in a university hall (probably) was already an established adult. With a career and a briefcase in hand that was most likely not for show but because it actually held something of importance.

There was no point in playing the comparison game, Greg knew that wholeheartedly. People started at different places with varied backgrounds, realized their passions later or earlier than others, or needed some time to sort themselves out. 

All of that was normal and completely okay.

No one was timing him but himself. That was something he always tried to remember when things were a bit harder to swallow.

At the end of the day, he would arrive wherever he was meant to and it wouldn't have mattered how long it took.

Still, it didn't stop the small twinges of envy when he looked at people so seemingly put together. 

Like Mr. Stranger himself.

Speaking of which. 

Over the course of the past few months, Greg had imagined the multiple answers that were possible for the myriad of questions Greg harboured in his brain about that man.

In terms of jobs, he suspected accountant, secretary, lawyer, assistant to a politician, a teacher, and even a spy once on a funny whim as Greg was reading _Casino Royale_ that week. 

The umbrella question also loomed almost as heavily for whatever reason so Greg assumed it really was a weapon or perhaps it was being used as a walking stick. Why else would the stranger carry it so consistently? Greg lost umbrellas left and right but Mr. Stranger held onto the same one. Black with a sleek brown, curved wooden handle. 

Or perhaps he had multiples of it? One for each day of the week?

Maybe he had pairs of socks as well that had dedicated calendar days.

More wonders to add to the question book. 

However, the one thing he couldn’t possibly think of was his name. All the ones that Greg knew sounded too ordinary, too pedestrian, even. 

He had always liked the name Alexander, which seemed to be the closest to fitting, royal, regal, untouchable, but it just wasn’t quite right for what Greg saw in front of him. 

When he tried to search for fancier names online, they all sounded unoriginal and downright pretentious. 

So, he left that one a true mystery. He would always just be dubbed as Mr. Stranger. The Pretty Redhead. The Suited Man. 

It was not as if he would ever know for sure. It kind of made the whole thing seem more novel-esque. Fantastical. 

He could live with that. 

_Another plaid day, huh? Must be special._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for it being so short.  
> The next couple of ones are lengthier.  
> It was just that the chapter break felt more natural than if I had moved it further down.  
> Thank you for your patience. 
> 
> Sidenote: some of the 'no one's timing you' ideas are aimed at my best friend. I love him to death and I always have to remind him that it's okay to go at things at your own pace. For anyone who has ever felt like they weren't where they should be, I want to tell you you're exactly where you need to be. You're the only one pressuring yourself to be somewhere else. Revel that you are where you are and you'll get where you need to be in due time.  
> It's okay. <3 <3


	5. Chapter 5

Shit.

He had overslept.

Either his alarm clock died in the night or he was really dog-tired. 

What cruel irony it was that when Greg spent so much of the night attempting to carry half his group through the bloody final project, he ended up suffering for it. Where was the whole positive karma thing? 

Thank god it was Friday. 

Greg had never been so grateful for the weekend in his entire school career.

Other than every time he had woken up on Saturday with a hangover. 

When he called the restaurant to apologize profusely, Mrs. MacIntyre assured him that it was fine.

“You work too hard, m’lad,” she said, “crashing was only a matter of time.”

She assured him it was no problem because Richard had randomly showed up earlier than usual that morning so they still had enough hands. After shushing his continuous attempts at telling her he would work extra to make up for it (absolutely not, boy, you’re here too much, anyway), she told him to take a breather this weekend and that she would see him on Monday. 

He still felt horribly guilty but there was nothing he could do other than study a bit at the library so that the day wasn’t entirely wasted. He would have the opportunity during the term break to kick his feet up.

Which meant he should really catch up with a few of his mates sometime soon.

Glancing at the clock, it was about 8:20AM and he had plenty of time to grab some breakfast and food before it opened.

Feeling rather relieved, coffee in hand, feeling less like a fuck up, he heard the downstairs tube whir, and the influx of commuters heading up.

Despite it being the toss up day and the wrong time, far from it, he still looked around hoping he might see Mr. Stranger.

He didn’t.

Greg’s mental clock was pushed off the mantle and by 2:50 PM, he was exhausted. He wondered if staying at the library today was a good idea. He had bought another coffee with lunch to try to wake himself up a bit more but it wasn’t working at all. 

He decided to call it a day. 

It was the first time in a while that he went home so early but he wasn’t about to crash in the middle of the library. He was a snorer. A loud one. 

Standing on the tube platform closest to his university, he patiently waited for the tube, not feeling in any rush. It felt kind of nice not having to be somewhere at a certain time. 

When it arrived, he stepped inside and took a seat.

Not many commuters were out at the moment compared to the core of rush hour so he enjoyed being able to rest his legs and relax a bit.

Or as much as he could on the piece of metal they tried to market as a bench.

What he did not notice right away was what was to the left of him.

Well, more so, who. 

He tried not to stare. He really, really did. 

But standing there, not alone, was Mr. Stranger.

Today was a light grey Glen Check suit with a black coat and brogues. Everything else about him was the same, umbrella, briefcase, a book in hand today, as well.

What was different was his face.

He looked irritated, which was as much expression as Greg had ever seen from him. But to Mr. Stranger’s left, the source of his annoyance seemed like, was a younger kid, probably a teenager, with dark curls so strikingly different from Mr. Stranger’s fiery locks, he would have questioned if they were related if the kid had not said ‘brother’. He was chattering endlessly and his voice was surprisingly smooth and low. 

“Everything is ghastly. Why does Mummy and Father insist that I go to this wretched school? Everyone is stupid and I can’t stand the teachers. They think they know their subject but they’re abhorrently inadequate and they don’t like it when I correct them. I don’t want to go there anymore. I am quitting school to become a detective. It is far more interesting and then I wouldn’t have to sit, learning things I already know. Tell our parents that I am escaping and that you will house me until I have enough money to leave.”

Mr. Stranger sighed and Greg finally, after all this time, heard him _speak_. Holy shit. 

“Sherlock, there is no scenario where they would accept that. I have already convinced them to allow you to stay in London with me instead of going back home to Gloucester for Christmas so that you can hang around with your friend Watson. You will go back to school during the new term. Don’t bother trying to run away from that. You can’t stay with me indefinitely.”

The kid, apparently named Sherlock (what a name that was), huffed and crossed his arms over his very thin chest. He definitely looked like he needed to eat more. His school uniform was far too baggy on him. Greg was mildly concerned that Sherlock wasn't getting proper nutrients before he snapped himself out of it, remembering that it wasn't his business. 

“You are all out to punish me,” huffed Sherlock, rather petulantly. 

Mr. Stranger rolled his eyes. “Hardly. You are being far too melodramatic about this situation.”

“I hate you.”

“I’m well aware of that, thank you for pointing out the obvious. Your detective skills are quite astute. I am sure your business will be lucrative.”

Greg almost snorted but smothered his expression before it was too late. Sherlock, muttering something about how people were idiots and that the world was so boring, then pouted himself into utter silence. And thus their conversation ended, both of them remaining quiet until they arrived at the connecting stop.

They all exited, the pair of them heading to their tube while Greg went to his own. 

Going down the stairs, Greg was parsing the wealth of information he had just received. Namely that Mr. Stranger sounded as posh as he looked (definitely ticking towards spy now). He was an older brother with a bratty and know-it-all younger sibling. The latter was too smart for his own good and probably got into a wealth of trouble. Greg could relate to that heavily. The two apparently referred to their mum as 'Mummy' which was very endearing.

However, the only thing Greg lamented was the fact that he knew Sherlock’s name but not Mr. Stranger’s.

He would take what he could get, though. It was far more than he thought he would ever receive. 

Maybe positive karma did exist in unexpected and interesting ways. 

There wasn’t really anything to do with the information, in actuality, but it was kind of nice being able to know more about the enigmatic man Greg had spent these months wondering about.

Christ, he was a stalker, wasn’t he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the plot thickens a bit.


	6. Chapter 6

Christmas rolled around and Greg had to endure many kisses and hugs from distant and not so distant relatives.

It was fun, for the most part, if not a bit smothering. 

He ate more food than he did his entire life and enjoyed seeing his parents get drunk with his aunts and uncles, laughing about everything and nothing.

It was a warm time, filled with far too much mulled wine.

His parents got him a new leather jacket for Christmas, saying how the old one was looking too battered (which was kind of the point but he wasn't going to argue). Some of his relatives pitched in a bit of money to help him repair his guitar as well as enough extra to supplement his textbook funds. He thanked all of them by playing a few songs, taking requests, and joining in on his dad’s piano solo with accompanying strings.

Greg listened to his grandparents talk about the war (again) and to his younger aunt who was about to get married soon. 

Playing with his uncle’s dog and chewing the fat with his cousin was also nice.

Everything was just so jolly and bright.

He counted his lucky stars for the family he had. It wasn’t easy getting to this point, where he and his parents could sit and be the Lestrades again.

Without pretenses, rebellious phases, or snide comments about things that didn't matter. 

But they were doing okay now.

And that was most important. 

Greg wondered how Mr. Stranger was faring with his younger brother and if he was being surrounded by love and laughter, too. 

He hoped so. He really did. 

  
  


\--------

The week after the holidays was always the worst. 

Getting back into the swing of things was so much more difficult and everything seemed a little bleaker, especially with the festive decorations coming down while the weather continued to have a biting cold to it. 

Good ol' London. 

Snuggling deeper into his new jacket and his reliable scarf, Greg was convinced he had put on a whole stone during the holidays. He couldn’t really find much physical evidence on his theory but he felt it all the same. 

Just in case, he decided to cut down on any baked goods for at least a month or so and he made himself a promise to ensure he kept running.

Greg sipped his coffee while he (eagerly) waited for the stranger. 

This was the longest period of time he hadn’t seen him and Greg sort of felt that loss, the emptiness from it. 

Being elated by the mere thought of his presence was an interesting position to be in.

It was a combination of confusion, excitement, and anticipation. It wasn’t something Greg had ever felt before but, then again, he had never been in this social situation, either.

He supposed there was a first for everything. 

Greg really shouldn’t have let it get so personal. He knew it was a bad idea. Terrible, immature, and silly. 

The stranger could easily just disappear, much like how Greg could, as well. 

Their lives were only tied by their similar commutes and that wasn't going to continue forever. 

But here Greg was, standing on his usual platform, in his favourite spot, having long decided to stop questioning it. To simply enjoy the breath of fresh air that was that pretty redhead on the tube.

_That coat looks lovely. Is it new?_

\--------

Greg’s last date didn’t go extremely well. Not that any of the ones before that did, either.

He didn’t know what was wrong with him. What was preventing him from having a great time. 

Penelope was lovely, a medical student, funny, and quite gorgeous, too.

Sean had that charming smile that a year ago would probably have made Greg’s knees turn into jelly.

Then there was Sandra, Yvonne, and Ryan, all results of friends trying to set him up with someone they thought he would like. 

And they were right, to some degree. He did like them. They were good people, kind and engaging. They all had a sense of humour, ambitions, and interesting lives. 

But none of them made him feel warm and overly invested, or had that pull where Greg had to see them again, requesting another date.

Which was unfortunate because some of them definitely indicated they would have liked to take things further with him. 

But he had only kissed Yvonne’s cheek before dropping her back to her flat despite her obvious leaning for one on the lips and he declined Sean’s invitation to come in for a coffee.

Maybe Greg was overwhelmed with school and work, not thinking about much else other than graduating and whatever came next.

That seemed like a lie, though, even trying to reason with himself. He couldn’t quite place what was going on. What had changed. 

Greg wondered if the stranger had any more luck in that department. He didn’t seem to be much of a charmer or one who shelled out compliments like free passes. The stranger likely wasn't someone that was easily impressed. 

There was a part of him, though, that was probably witty. Greg was convinced Mr. Stranger had a sort of dry sense of humour if that brief interaction with his brother was anything to go by. He also could talk forever about politics and maths with that articulate and smooth voice, Greg guessed. His blue eyes definitely would sparkle when he laughed but it would take a special person to make him do so. 

All of these other imaginary scenarios and theories conjured up by Greg’s mind happened more often than he wanted to admit. 

He thought about asking Mr. Stanger out once. Twice. Maybe three or four times. 

But looking at himself in the mirror, rough around the edges with his scruffy hair and cheap clothes, both his school and personal life in disarray, he wasn’t a likely suitor. 

Mr. Stranger probably went out with other politicians or something, if that was what he was. People with influence, power, fancy cars, and suits worn for all occasions. A manor on the hills, playing polo and whatever it was that Posh Peters did. 

What would someone like him want with someone like Greg?

Middle class, boring, ordinary, philistine.

Who was to even say he was interested in men? 

He tossed any possible attempts at courtship out of the window. 

It was much better to just enjoy these moments before the tube.

The mornings always seemed much brighter nowadays.

Greg was sure about who he had to thank for that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, you might be getting annoyed but come on, the man's a stranger.  
> I struggle with talking to mere acquaintances.  
> But rest assured, I won't leave you guys hanging on the matter.  
> Greg won't, either.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got impatient but I posted another chapter a little more than twelve hours ago.  
> That's a day, right?

Valentine’s Day was never his favourite holiday (was it even considered as such?).

He had a girlfriend once who was very into the whole idea and wanted the entire experience. Flowers, chocolates, candlelit dinner. Dressing up in the best (and only) suit he owned. Her getting all dolled up.

At the time, Greg had thought that was everyone’s expectations, his inexperienced dating mind lumping partners under one umbrella of ‘mandatory things to do for the person you’re seeing because the advertisements said so’. But the subsequent boyfriend and, after him, girlfriend told him that wasn’t the case. Quite the opposite, in actuality. 

Greg fell strongly on their side of the fence about it and found the holiday to be overly commercial and pointless.

He didn’t need a dedicated day to show someone affection. He wanted to take them out for meals whenever, stare at the London skyline together, buy them sweets, things he knew they liked, because he _wanted_ to, not because the date on the calendar dictated that this very unimportant day in February told him he should. 

Another, maybe more petty, reason was that he hated buying flowers. 

They withered and died, regardless, and he didn't fancy contributing an unnecessary amount of pounds to watch things wilt.

Flowers belonged in a garden, growing in soil. Not wrapped in some plastic and ribbon for the novelty of a cute picture.

Hm. Maybe he was jaded. 

Well, it wasn't as if Greg needed to worry about the whole thing so much anyway as, this year, he wasn’t seeing anyone to spend the holiday with.

That was okay with him. He was never the type who always needed to be in a relationship. 

He had other things to focus on, to take up his time.

Namely, his handsome redhead who was coming up the stairs. 

Greg wondered briefly if Mr. Stranger had someone special as he couldn't fathom him being alone. Was he giving some lucky bloke or lady flowers this year? Taking them to some poncy restaurant after work? Was it because he enjoyed the holiday or, like Greg, felt obliged to but didn’t really want to? 

When he arrived at his familiar spot, Greg got a better look at his outfit today because he was holding his coat instead of wearing it this morning. 

Mr. Stranger’s suit was a dark gray linen, nothing out of the ordinary there. But his shirt colour was an interesting one he had never seen before and Greg's eyes widened at the sight.

_Wow._

A soft, pastel pink.

That was new and Greg decided in less than a second that he absolutely _adored_ it. It made the stranger's hair extra bright even in the dingy lighting of the Underground and it also made his skin look like a lovely peaches and cream in comparison.

A rush of butterflies fluttered through Greg’s stomach.

He almost wanted to take a picture just so he could remember it and keep the image forever. Just so he had something pretty to look at to make him smile.

And that was the moment, somewhere in Greg's consciousness, when the penny finally dropped.

When he realized what had been in front of him for ages. 

_Christ. I'm blind._

That.

That was what he needed.

The constant rush of fascination, that overwhelming joy, the nervous longing.

All of that. That was what he was missing.

No one made him feel like that anymore. Not even a little bit. 

Not Sean. Not Yvonne. Not Ryan or Penelope or any of them. People he legitimately talked to and shared meals with. Who he met in socially acceptable and normal scenarios. 

Yet, somehow, this stranger, in every sense, translation, and meaning of that word, who Greg had been watching for half a year, was the only one who could make him feel that way.

Despite never exchanging a single sentence, without him being aware of Greg's existence, or him even knowing the stranger's name. 

Something was clicking into place, pulling strings in his mind. In his heart.

And there was only one conclusion. 

Greg had to talk to him.

  
\--------

It was far easier said than done.

He had no idea how to start, what to say, or how to say it. 

_You’re lovely and I imagine the conversations we might have based on the small things I've noticed about you over the months. Also, your voice is so smooth and pleasant, I can listen to it all day. Mind grabbing a pint with me? I have to know who you are beyond what I see in the fluorescent glow of the station._

Greg somehow didn’t assume that would go down very well. 

Although he was almost proud of how poetic it sounded. 

Perhaps in some romantic comedies, that whole speech would not seem desperate and sad. Unfortunately, he lived in the real world.

Dear lord, what was he getting into?

He spent the night devising a few plans and all of them seemed to end in abject failure or irreparable awkwardness. He only had about five to ten minutes each morning to maybe get the stranger to notice his presence.

That would seem pushy in the best light and harassing in the worst.

There had to be a way to talk to him, to breach that gap between them.

Ask him about the book he was reading?

Guess he had a brother and have him figure out how Greg could know? That one sounded especially stupid in his head but he couldn’t help but think of it.

What if he accidentally dropped something and strategically aimed it to roll towards the stranger’s foot?

Jeeze, he had never realized how uncreative he was.

He would make a terrible romantic movie protagonist. 

  
\--------

For the next week, Greg tried to work up the nerve to say something, anything, to that enigmatic man.

He felt like he was in sixth form again, trying to suavely get someone’s attention without seeming like a tosser or a loser. Or both. 

But every time he saw him, that impassive expression, those suits, that poise, Greg was deterred.

Someone like Mr. Stranger was so out of his league, no amount of charm would ever be enough.

He probably ate dinners where there were multiple utensils, each for a specific purpose that Greg wouldn't be able to remember. He probably had a butler or something, too.

Greg with his terrible table etiquette, inability to stop swearing, and his penchant for chain smoking under stress just didn’t line up with the stranger he saw.

There was a part of him that was screaming the fact that he would regret never giving it a shot, but the louder more rational voice kept feeding him those ugly truths.

So, the fifth morning came and went.

He hadn’t said a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to take the opportunity to sort of announce that I'm working on two AUs at the moment that I'm hoping to start publishing before the next school term (May for me).  
> One of them is a Percy Jackson AU and the other is a Potterlock.  
> They were both my favourite series growing up.  
> But the Percy Jackson one follows the first book while the other is going off the rails from some inspiration I had last year.  
> So, yeah.  
> If I tell people, it forces me to work harder to get something out there.  
> Until tomorrow. <3 <3


	8. Chapter 8

His finals were approaching again. The last stage of his university career.

Feeling the tendrils of anxiety and the weightlessness of not knowing for sure what he was going to do in a couple of months, his mood was on the decline again.

Although, it fortunately wasn't as bad as last time. No snappish confrontations with his parents or coworkers.

No need to buy conciliatory muffins. That was a positive.

In terms of future careers, he had a somewhat better grasp at his options. 

His grades wouldn't be exemplary enough to pursue any higher order of education. So, that was out.

One of his mates was doing some factory work for the time being so he could pay his way through medical school.

He considered doing that for a bit to increase his savings. That wouldn't be too bad. He was strong and could hold his own.

Worst case scenario, he could help out at the music store down the street. He knew the owner and they did need some hands.

Maybe he could apply for a position at the museum, put his history degree into good use. 

Be a guide and move his way up to something else not related to delicate artefacts? He wouldn't adore the job but he wouldn't hate it, either. 

That seemed like a pretty good middle for him. 

He would feel far more comfortable if he just had a little more cash.

God, money always had to be a problem, didn't it?

His fingers itched towards his lighter, like they always did when he could feel a wave of stress boiling up (he really needed to cut down on the nicotine), while his other hand clasped his trusty thermal flask, filled to the brim with caffeine goodness. 

The stranger wasn’t there this morning. It was Friday after all, but it always gave Greg a little bit of worry that he might not show up on Monday. 

Which was silly.

This all was, to be honest.

But after that last week of mental berating and his shifting resolve, he was feeling rather tired of not taking action.

Of letting life kind of run its course. 

He just had to get his wits about him. That was all.

He could do this.

He had to. 

  
\--------

This was going to be the day.

Greg chanted it as he left the front door.

As he entered the station.

Ran up the stairs to catch the first train.

And as he settled at his spot, waiting. 

No matter how stupid he was going to sound or if he stuttered during the whole ordeal, he wouldn’t be led astray. Not this time. 

Maybe he would get told off immediately, figure out the stranger was straight or whatever, and then Greg could finally put this whole fantasy to rest knowing he did what he could.

On the off chance the stranger was not only not-straight, but actually _interested_ , Greg would try not to seize over in surprise, ask the damned bloke for his number, and take him to the nice restaurant down the road. 

Yeah, that sounded like a fair plan. 

The worst thing the stranger could do was be an absolute prick and then in a couple of weeks, Greg wouldn’t need to take this train again and he would forget all about this, all about him.

His fancy suits, his lovely voice, his pretty eyes. 

Well, he supposed a part of him knew that he probably wouldn’t. At least not very easily. 

So, he tried not to entertain that scenario too much.

But as the minutes ticked by and the stranger’s train came and went below, he never showed up.

It was Monday. That didn’t make sense.

Greg gulped his coffee down, almost not feeling the heat running down his throat.

 _Well, fuck_. 

  
\--------

The next day, the stranger wasn’t there again.

Greg was reminded of that one time a couple of months ago when he had disappeared for a week, returning worse for wear. 

So, he used that to comfort himself while simultaneously banging his head into a proverbial wall for being too much of a coward to do anything.

In a foul mood already, he went through the motions of work and being a student. He was considerably less chatty and could tell that people were taking notice of it.

He had no idea how to explain to his mates about his situation and just said exams had been causing him stress.

It was a believable enough excuse and it wasn’t entirely a lie. They had seen what happened last year. And the year before that. 

Greg _was_ anxious about them but trying to also highlight that the bloke he had been eyeing at the tube station for the better part of the school year had disappeared again before he had a chance to ask him to dinner was just unnecessary details.

  
\--------

Another day passed and nothing again.

\--------

Then another.

  
\--------

The week was over and still, Mr. Stranger wasn’t there.

Greg could feel his heart drop into his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.  
> I'm just a sadist, I'm so sorry.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't wait another day.  
> My break ends today, too, anyway. So, I'll post the rest of the chapters by tomorrow.

Monday rolled around again and Greg had decided to catch the earlier train, having to wake up an extra half hour in advance.

He planned on sticking around the station longer than usual on the off chance Mr. Stranger’s routine was different. 

It could have been as simple as that. He was hoping at least. 

Greg had to find out. It was actually distracting him which was annoying to realize but even more frustrating not to have rectified. 

He felt like he had missed his chance at something amazing and he was going to hurl himself off a cliff if he didn’t do all he could to reverse it. Having already kicked himself thoroughly for being an absolute wuss, it was now high time to look at solutions.

There was no point in just moping around about it. He was a man of action (supposedly) and results (for non-personal situations, though) and he’d be damned if he didn’t get anything through his sheer amount of effort.

When he arrived at his spot, he got comfortable.

Scanning the room and taking in the new crowd that he wasn’t familiar with, he made note of particular faces and their most obvious features.

He filed away people who looked normal, made extra note of those who seemed like trouble.

Not that he could do anything about it necessarily if it came to a head, but it was good to feel prepared in some way. 

Old habits die hard. 

In any case, he had some time to kill and he luckily remembered to bring his headphones. 

Plugging in his music, he flipped through his tracks before settling on his old reliable, the Sex Pistols.

Tapping his foot to the music, rocking out to give his body some energy, he sipped his coffee and waited.

And waited.

It hit five thirty, the usual time and, still, Mr. Stranger had not arrived. 

Greg had given away his shift today and Mrs. MacIntyre approved it with a wave of her hand and an ushering for Greg to sleep in for once.

She’d be upset to learn he did the exact opposite but that wasn’t the point really.

The next train came by and that red hair was nowhere to be seen.

He stayed an extra hour, coffee long gone, already halfway through another album.

But he wasn’t going to be deterred yet. 

  
\--------

He couldn’t exactly give away all his shifts so he had to do something else, as well.

On top of studying for finals, this was getting to be quite the time sink but he thought it was fairly worth it.

In some twisted way.

Greg knew if he explained to anyone about this whole ordeal, his missions, they would have told him he was insane and that he should have dropped it. 

Why pine over someone who didn’t know you existed?

They would point out all the possible negative things that could come out from this, all the rational scenarios to his rather irrational ventures.

And he knew them, he considered it all.

Multiple times. 

He just didn’t care anymore and that was the fact of the matter. 

So, having thrown logic out the window probably many months ago, he decided on his next course of action. 

\--------

Mr. Stranger seemed like a man of habit. 

That one time he saw him with his younger brother, the cabin was pretty much the same to the one he would have stepped into on their usual platform.

Greg supposed he must have really enjoyed the two-third point of the station. 

In any case, using that little piece of information, he decided to attempt approaching him from the other way. 

Mr. Stranger got up really early so he probably got off work early, too. 

Right? That made sense.

He also seemed like a workaholic so perhaps the range of 4 PM to 6 PM would be solid enough.

Greg had his notes on him and his music to not completely be wasting his time, although none of this could've been seen as anything but a waste of time.

Unless he got results.

Well, he settled himself on the bench closest to the cabin he was looking for and waited for each train to pass by. He glanced up when he heard the rumbling, scanned it, and, when he didn’t find the object of his focus, returned to studying for his finals and reading some textbooks.

He surprisingly got a lot of work done.

But unfortunately, Mr. Stranger did not appear.

  
\--------

With the combination of Greg getting there earlier if he could and sticking around the train station during peak end-of-day hours, he spent an ungodly amount of time in the public transit area.

He was probably getting noticed at this point as a couple of girls had come by to eye him twice in a row already. 

One of them in particular looked interested and Greg did his best to ignore everyone in the world, focusing solely on paper and moving tubes.

It was pretty easy. 

There was an odd sense of focus this whole task gave him. Something solid to do, something that would provide fruit one way or another.

Having felt so lost, just going through the motions of the things he knew he needed to get done instead of what he necessarily wanted to do was grounding. 

This past year had been a mixture of dullness, stress, and uncertainty. 

It felt almost freeing to do this, to go for something, someone, he wanted. Sitting here, out of his regular routine, with a myriad of things in mind that weren’t just related to school, work, and an occasional pint with friends. 

He was passionate about this in a weird way.

Not that none of this wasn't odd already.

So, if Mr. Stranger turned Greg down, he would be forever grateful to him for the opportunity to feel like this. 

To cut the ennui and be a little reckless. 

Greg smiled to himself. 

Life could get really interesting at times. 

It just took someone special. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, guys.  
> It will all be okay.


	10. Chapter 10

And finally, after two weeks of Greg's trials and tribulations, there he was.

His enigmatic stranger.

His pretty redhead.

His suited man. 

Standing there on the platform as if he hadn’t disappeared for almost a month.

It was a Friday, of all days, and the time was 5:20 AM.

Greg had been close to giving up a couple of times, but he held firm, knowing, hoping, that somehow, he would see him again. 

And, he was apparently right. 

Greg had to do it. 

Else, he would never have this chance again. He had learnt that lesson the hard way. 

Greg walked right up to him and tapped the man on his shoulder. His suit felt expensive, even with that light brush of his finger. 

Those blue eyes shifted towards him in slight surprise but settled in an expression Greg _swore_ was recognition.

It was finally happening, he was talking to him. He could feel his heart beat out of his ribcage. It was nearly audible. 

“Hello,” said Mr. Stranger, clear and crisp as day, the poster boy for a fantastic audiobook. “May I help you?”

Had this exchange occurred any other time in his life, two weeks, two months, two years ago, Greg would have shied away, fell over trying to say something charming, or even maybe attempted to play hard to get.

But not this time. Not with him. He was done with that. 

He smiled. “Hi, my name is Greg. I’ve noticed you for the past few months and you’re just super gorgeous and I can't stop thinking about you. I’m not sure if you’re interested in men, let alone me, but I had to try to ask you out. I wanted to a couple of times and I was too much of a coward. But not anymore. So,” he took a deep breath, “can I get your number and will you have dinner with me?”

It was better to not beat around the bush. 

And he didn't even stutter. That was a plus. 

The stranger looked at him, his eyes roving all over Greg’s face, his clothes, his hair. He felt like he was being scanned, analyzed, picked apart and put back just the way he was before. Not a stitch out of place.

He wasn’t saying no or fuck off immediately, which was helping Greg’s confidence. But he wasn’t expecting what did come out of the stranger’s mouth. “Why?”

Greg blinked. “Why what?”

Mr. Stranger narrowed his eyes. “Why would someone like you want to ask out someone like me?”

He shrugged, not expecting this line of questioning so early, hoping to at least get a first date in. Greg knew he wasn’t much compared to Savile Row men but he thought his confidence made up for a lot. “Look, I know I’m just a scruffy bloke and you’re all aristocratically attractive and long legs, and that I don’t really have much style going for me. But I can clean up nice-”

The other man shook his head, his expression more akin to disbelief. Greg didn’t have time to appreciate the range of facial movement he was capable of because Mr. Stranger had interrupted him. “You misunderstand my meaning. Why would some like you, handsome and carefree, want someone like me? Stuffy and boring.”

Oh. Huh. 

“It is nice to know your name, however. I have noticed you, as well," he looked away, contemplative. 

_Wait, what? Hold the fucking phone._

“Although Greg was not what I was expecting, truth be told. You seemed more like a George to me. Maybe even a Graham if you stuck to jeans alone.” Mr. Stranger was essentially talking to himself at this point and Greg was being blown to bits at every word.

He knew him? _He_ had noticed _him_? This entire time?

“Why didn’t you say hi or anything to me?” asked Greg, incredulous, eyes probably comically wide. 

Mr. Stranger scoffed, his gaze returning to Greg. “And say what? There was no way to discern your level of interest in me and I would only ever see you in the morning, except for that one instance. Not a very conducive environment for such a thing. You rely on caffeine almost as much as nicotine and you’re barely awake. I’m surprised I haven’t seen you fall over in exhaustion yet.”

“How do you know I smoke?” he asked, opting to focus on one thing at a time lest his brain explode into a disorganized mass of white and gray matter. Was the stranger paying that close attention all these months?

“Your hands and fingers, also, I have an acute sense of smell.” 

This was getting ridiculous, Greg had to laugh out loud. 

He did. 

“Fucking Christ. Here I was, trying to devise plans for you to talk to me, know I exist, and you have all along.”

The stranger chuckled and Greg was immediately smitten with how sweet and innocent he looked when he smiled.

_That answers that question at last._

He really couldn’t believe this was happening. 

“You're clearly unware how attractive you are. I am rather surprised you even cared to look in my direction, but I suppose I was wrong. I’m usually not,” he smirked at Greg, doing a complete one eighty from his previous expression. 

_Yup, absolutely smitten, dear god._

“What’s your name? I’ve had theories about that, among some other things.” Greg could feel his grin break his face into two, his confidence growing exponentially. 

“My name is Mycroft. What are your other assumptions about me?” he asked, his tone playful. “I’ve had a few of my own, as well.”

What an interesting name and, somehow, completely perfect for the stranger he didn’t really know. 

“Ah, but where’s the fun in that? Let me buy you dinner and I’ll let you in on all my wildly crazy fantasies about what you do, what your umbrella is for, and which suits I like you best in.” Greg wasn't wasting any time. 

Mycroft’s (it felt so odd to place a name now) eyebrows rose in surprised delight. “You’re quite forward. Who is to say I am even going to accept your offer?” His expression was more neutral now but his tone never lost that joking edge. The man had a tendency to tease and Greg was _all_ for it. 

“You wouldn’t have humoured me for this long if you planned on rejecting me. You seem like a bloke who doesn’t like his time wasted. I don’t intend to do that.” Greg smiled his winning smile, the one he used to drive home his flirty intent. 

“Well,” Mycroft’s eyes sparkled, “I see that your ability to read people is quite exemplary.” 

Greg grinned, knowing that he had won him over, that he was right. “So? Can I have your number? Let's get dinner.”

Mycroft smiled at him. 

“Certainly.”

  
\--------

It turned out that Mycroft was bloody good at figuring out Greg. All his theories were correct (“You’re an only child, you have an estranged relationship with your parents that had recently been bettered, you have a bit of an addictive personality, you smoke when stressed, you’re too hard a worker, you most likely wait at a restaurant but you are also one of the first in to open.”). 

To be fair, Greg had also been right on a number of accounts. Mycroft did work for the government but he didn’t specify where exactly. Just mentioned it being a minor position for the Department for Transport (although it sounded like bullshit to Greg). His umbrella was, in fact, not a weapon but Mycroft said it with a little evil glint in his eye so Greg took that to mean the opposite. 

Apparently there _was_ a sort of pattern to Mycroft’s suits. They had to do with his task that day and what he needed to accomplish. Pinstripe meant hard and stone-cold business. Glen Check meant a casual day. Linen meant a day of constant desk work and not seeing anyone else.

“What about plaid?” asked Greg. 

Mycroft looked appalled at the reminder that he ever had to don such a thing. “Having tea with my parents,” he grumbled so petulantly like a child, Greg couldn’t help but laugh at his expense. 

“If it makes you feel any better, you were quite dishy in something more patterned. But I stand by the fact that you look best in pinstripe.” 

Mycroft blushed (it crept across his cheeks and hit his ears). "I'll keep that in mind." 

Their whole dinner was essentially confirming their theories about each other which was the funniest first date experience he had ever had. Usually, you went into them knowing next to nothing, not carrying a list of assumptions.

It was lovely, it felt natural in the maddest way, and by the end of it, Greg knew that he would be asking for and getting a second, third, fourth, and fifth date. There was so much more yet to learn and the idea shot ripples through his chest.

And when Mycroft smiled at him, a bit shy still and a little in awe about the situation they were in, Greg leant over to give him a heated kiss before he opened Mycroft’s cab door, a promise for another dinner this weekend.

The warmth that filled his heart was almost tangible.

The butterflies almost ripped his stomach apart.

His mind was giddy with affection and interest and utter excitement.

His lips were buzzing with heat. 

His very soul taking flight. 

Greg walked home as the restaurant he chose was one of his favourites. 

As he continued down the pavement, he peered at the streets, took in the mass of people passing by, glanced at the open stores.

The moon shone, illuminating the darker paths, while the city itself lit up the rest. 

The city. 

His city. 

London looked a bit brighter all of a sudden. Shone with more possibilities. Was vibrant with potential. 

And Greg hoped it stayed that way. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally.  
> I hope this didn't feel too rushed.  
> I just couldn't leave everything hanging again.  
> I mean, it's fiction, right?  
> You can have some artistic liberty and just have everything fall in place.  
> Epilogue soon. <3 <3


	11. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just don't know how to leave a story alone.

**One month later**

“You are attentive to your surroundings, you are caring and considerate to friends and strangers, you pick up on small details, and your physique is solid yet agile. Have you ever considered police work?”

The suggestion hit Greg between the eyes.

It hadn’t. Ever. 

Him? A police officer? 

“Do you really see that?” he asked tentatively despite knowing that Mycroft wouldn’t have said so if he hadn’t considered a hundred different possibilities, trashed half of them, ordered the rest by plausibility, and whittled the list down until the best scenarios remained. It was one of the many things that fascinated Greg about the man who had captured his sights so wholeheartedly. 

And the fact that he knew multiple languages, _could_ actually read much faster than the average person, and was, even though Mycroft thought the word was juvenile, a genius.

Mycroft smiled sweetly. “I truly do.” 

“I’ll look into it. Thanks, darlin'.” Greg kissed him on the cheek quickly as they waited for their train.

His boyfriend’s (the fact that he could say that now would never stop surprising Greg) stop was five stations after his so he was going to visit him at work today when his final classes were over.

They had to pick up Sherlock later on, too. 

Greg smoothed down Mycroft's plaid lapel. He didn't need to. As if Greg had any idea what he was doing compared to the one wearing the suit.

But he was just tactile and they definitely felt nice.

They also looked amazing.

Worn on a person. Discarded on the floor.

Wherever. 

Sipping his coffee that Mycroft so lovingly made for him (he was a bit of a connoisseur), he thought back to a question he had long ago. When this whole thing even started.

“Why do you even take public transit?” 

Mycroft blushed suddenly and, having realized the reason immediately, Greg could only laugh. 

Christ, they were both hopeless.

  
\--------

**One year later**

“So, how did you guys meet?” asked Gregson, one of his trainee friends.

They were out for dinner with him and his girlfriend, Maggie.

“Oh, you know, the usual way. In the London Underground,” replied Greg. 

Mycroft snorted. “You make it sound a touch more suspicious when you phrase it like that.” 

He grinned cheekily as Gregson and Maggie laughed. 

“Kind of true, though.”

He explained the story, cutting out how many times it took for Greg to gather enough courage and shortening how long they had both been pining for. 

Mycroft apparently was going to talk to Greg that one time he had seen him in the afternoon. But Sherlock would have had a field day of mockery and he just couldn't risk it at the time.

He had regretted it afterwards, though. 

Well, not that the kid had any qualms about insulting Greg once he and Mycroft had established something more properly a bit after they started dating. 

_"Your ability to be innocuous is appalling, George. I'll be surprised if you actually become an officer_ ," he sneered, while his friend, John, was giving him an apologetic look. 

Greg rolled his eyes despite the tug threatening his lips. Yeah, the sixteen year old was a bit of a pain but he adored him all the same.

Apparently being seven years apart in age meant about seventy leagues apart in maturity, as well, compared to his older brother. But Greg decided to keep that comment to himself. 

"It is funny, though," he remarked as they headed to Mycroft's place in Mayfair, stomachs full. "If we continued to be shy, none of this would have happened."

Mycroft gave him an amused smile. "Oh, I'm not entirely sure about that. I probably would have hacked the CCTV in the area to find you." 

Greg scoffed. "Minor position, eh, dear?" 

He laughed. "Of course. It's important to keep track of these things. CCTV is simply another tool."

They paid the cabbie and walked up the stone pavement towards his home. 

Mycroft went ahead to unlock the door while Greg's steps slowed behind him.

He looked at Mycroft from a bit of a distance. Watching how he always had a purpose to his stride, how the slight silver lines in his pinstripe suit shined under the moonlight, how his fingers moved around carefully as he located his keys.

All those little details he had noticed about Mr. Stranger. 

Greg sighed peacefully.

He wasn't Mr. Stranger anymore. 

Or the Pretty Redhead. Or the Suited Man. Well, he was still those two things.

But now he was his boyfriend, his partner, his lover, his early morning barista, and his quitting buddy. 

Greg thought back to the platform.

How this small space between them felt so infinitely large. 

A year ago, he wouldn't have assumed he would be standing here, right now, knowing that the person in front of him was his. 

But there Greg was.

There Mycroft was. 

He couldn't help but smile.

Mycroft noticed Greg hadn't come up next to him. He turned, narrowing his eyes. "Anything the matter?"

Greg shook his head, a goofy look on his face, surely. "Nothing, nothing at all."

Mycroft raised his hand, reaching for him and closing the distance between them a bit. 

He took it, allowing himself to be pulled forward. 

Delicate lips touched his own. 

"I love you," whispered Mycroft, quiet as the gentle breeze around them.

The sky exploded into a million different colours.

At least to Greg. 

"I love you, too." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for coming on this trip with me.  
> Until the next post!  
> <3 <3


End file.
